


264 - Angsty Fight with Van

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Cute meet, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-04-07
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:42:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “reader not being close to their family and van keeps bugging them to meet the family? Vans super close with his and you know he keeps insisting that its time and she kinda puts it off because she doesn’t want to explain to him that she has no contact with them.” and “could you write about an argument/ dick van? But also he’s not really that much of a dick because he loves you and refuses to ever give you a reason to leave him. Maybe him sleeping on the couch for a week and obvious fighting throughout the day but you still say I love yous to each  other to make sure you both know”Mini requests of Van teaches Reader to play a video game (assuming she doesn’t know how) and when she’s better than him he gets annoyed, and finding Van crying





	264 - Angsty Fight with Van

The house was emptying of people faster than you would have expected. It was a major drawback of having a place so close to the city; people would use parties there as pre-drinks before hitting the city. You weren’t like that though. There was something nostalgic… magic… timeless… about house parties that you totally bought into. And if they had those American red plastic cups! Well, fuck! Your night would be absolutely fucking made.

The house emptying of people meant that there were more drinks and nibbles to go around. With a bag of pretzels under one arm and a bottle of cider in the other hand, you sat down on the floor in front of the huge television. You’d lost Sam a little bit ago. Who knows where she’d squirrelled off to… Or rather, who she’d squirrelled off to. As you turned the television and PlayStation on, someone sat on the carpet next to you.

“Know how to use that, love?” he asked.

You looked over at him and pulled your best ‘confused lost girl who doesn’t know how to use the big bad PlayStation’ face. He was drunk, stupid, or ignorant enough to not see the heavy sarcasm. Maybe he was all of them.

You watched him get the second controller and unwrap the cable from around it. He took another swig of his beer before crossing his legs and settling in.

“What d'ya wanna play?” he asked, looking over at you. He was beautiful and it was an absolute tragedy that he was so drunk, stupid, ignorant, or all of the above.

“I don’t know. What’s your favourite?” you asked in a voice only vaguely similar to your real one.

The guy narrowed his eyes. There it was. He knew you were doing something, but couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

“Fifa. Definitely. But wouldn’t be fair to play that. I’m dead good at it. And if you’re just a beginner…” he answered. There was an honesty in his voice; an authenticity to his notion of fair. Regardless, you wanted to laugh.

“No! It’s the football one, yeah?”

“Yes! You got it, babe. I reckon you’ll be a natural,” he replied and you felt a tinge of guilt about being on the defence so readily.

You let the guy teach you the basics. Slowly enough that he wouldn’t catch on, you got better and better. He’d never guess you had been watching soccer and playing Fifa your whole life. Using his teaching as a basis for judgement, you gathered you could probably win against him.

Despite the game you were playing against him without his knowledge, you were still genuinely enjoying the guy’s company. It made sense to you when other people started to gravitate towards him.

“Van! Mate! You ain’t boring this poor thing to death with ya fuckin’ football, are ya?”

“I’m not a thing,” you said quickly to the guy in a nice red velvet shirt. 

He smirked and nodded. “Right you are. What you doin’ with him then?“ he replied, nodding his head towards his friend.

"I’m teaching her how to play. She said she wanted to learn,” the other one, Van, explained. “That’s Bondy, by the way,” he added at the end, then paused the game. “Fuck. I ain’t even introduced myself proper,”

“Mary will give you a slap on the wrist for that one,” a new guy said as he plonked down on the same couch as Bondy.

“I’m Van. Bondy, like I said. And this is Larry,” Van told you.

“Y/N,” you replied to him. “Hi,” to the others.

As you looked back at Van, you caught each other’s gaze. For a small, intense moment, you couldn’t tear your eyes from him. Your stomach flipped. Fuck. Why did you have to start it off so mean?

“Ready to keep going? Think I’m getting good,” you said, breaking the tension.

The lesson continued and your apparent skills continued to grow. Larry and Bondy watched, amused. You suspected they both had guessed what you were hiding, but they both seemed very happy about tricking their charismatic but spacey friend.

“Van. Think you should do a proper match with Y/N now… Think you can take him, Y/N?” Larry asked. You glanced over at him. Confirmed. They knew.

Money was thrown on the coffee table in the room. A few other people joined in, most betting their money on Van to win. He wasn’t wrong when he said he was good. He had a reputation and everything! Larry and Bondy were the only two to bet on you and they both pretended it was because it was the nice thing to do.

For the first two quarters, you let Van dominate. He stayed cross-legged and hardly seemed to try at all. The game was paused halfway through to allow people to get refills or change their bets. Of course, nobody did. You moved to sit up on your knees; Van watched you, trying not to stare.

“Love?” he whispered. You smiled and wrinkled your nose at him. “I’ll let ya win if you want?”

He meant it to be nice, but it was straight up patronising. You couldn’t wait to absolutely kill him in his all-time favourite game.

“No. We play fair,” you replied, fingers crossed behind your back.

In the third quarter, you caught up to Van, making it look like good luck and accidents for the most part. The people that had laid down hard cash nervously swallowed their booze. Van was too cocky to think much of it, and honestly, you kinda loved him for that.

In the final minutes of the game, he came undone completely. He was up on his feet screaming at the screen and looking down at you in utter disbelief. He paused the game and the crowd that had formed in the living room all booed.

“You knew how to play, didn’t ya?!” he accused. You shrugged. “That ain’t an answer, love,”

“That!” you yelled. “That right there is how you got here. I never said I didn’t know how to play. You assumed.” The crowd giggled and ohhhhhh'ed. “Remember how you came waltzing over with your skinny white boy indie swagger, calling me 'love’ and asking if I knew how to use the fuckin’ PlayStation? The assumption you could win probably formed in your head about then.”

Van’s mouth dropped, then his lips curved into a smile. He was grinning and laughing. "I think I love you,“ was all he answered with.

"Of course you fuckin’ do. Can we keep going now? I’m ready to win.”

The crowd was silent. Van tilted his head. You could see his stupid heart eyes. You thought maybe you loved him too. He resumed the game.

You won.

Van was dramatic about the loss, kicking pillows around the room and ducking from the punters who’d lost money on him. He kept an eye on you as you sat on the couch and put your legs over Bondy’s lap.

“How much did you make?” you asked, grinning.

“Not gonna believe this. 'Bout 180 pounds,”

“What?! Where’s my cut?”

“Aye. 60 each,” he replied, splitting the cash between you, Larry and himself.

The room had gone back to how it was pre-game. People were no longer being entertained by you and Van, so they went off to find fun elsewhere. Someone had turned the music back up, and as Polygraph Eyes played, Bondy lit a joint. Van came and sat on the floor in front of the couch. He shook his head at you all.

“This was cheatin’,” he said.

“Nah, mate. We was just playing a different game to you,” Bondy replied.

“And you! You’re meant to be my best mate,” Van continued, looking at Larry. He took a hit and blew a badly formed smoke ring up into the air. He shrugged at Van, then passed the joint to you.

“Thanks,” you said, but it was plucked from between your fingers before you could put it between your lips.

Van was up on his knees, leaning over you. He inhaled hard and blew up into the air.

“You’re the worst of them all,” he told you. He was close enough that you could see each of the freckles on his face.

“That would be you… 'cause you’re the sexist one,” you replied.

Van placed the joint between your lips for you. You pressed down and maintained eye contact. Presumably, Bondy and Larry were watching, but somehow you didn’t care. It didn’t make you feel awkward.

“No,” Van said. His tone was sure. “I mean… I didn’t mean it like that. Just don’t see things from that point of view sometimes. Don’t see it when I should,” he defended.

You believed him. You didn’t really think he was a misogynist. He probably just subscribed to outdated traditions and mannerism that had sexist histories. He probably believed in chivalry… in asking a father for a daughter’s hand in marriage… in all that bullshit. He had a brainwashed version of romance, but he wasn’t bad. There was an undeniable gentleness in him. There was a sense of loyalty.

While Van’s eyes flicked to his friends for encouragement, you tried to work out which house he’d belong in. He’d be half Gryffindor, half Hufflepuff; a hatstall that would be giving the choice. He’d chose Gryffindor. His eyes flicked back to you.

“I believe you,” you told him.

His shoulders rolled back and he smiled lazily. He hadn’t ever meant to hurt you, and armed with the knowledge he actually hadn’t, he was back to his attempts at charming you into his arms. Gryffindor magic or some shit… It worked.

And really it was okay, because everything you needed to know about Van, you learnt in those first few hours of knowing him. His good was crystal clear from the get-go. He was passionate and wild, he didn’t always think things through, and he spoke in a stream of consciousness. He loved his friends, Fifa, music, and a little sneaky smoke. Of all the emotions in the world, the ones that inhabited his body most frequently were awe, gratitude, and love.

The rigged Fifa game showed you everything you needed to know about Van’s bad side too. He was hot-headed and didn’t like being made a fool. It took a while for him to process information and put it in the right place in his brain, and because of that not thinking things through was a con as much as a pro. He was too competitive and too traditional. Van, the stubborn show off that could excuse anything he did and make it sound justifiable. Everything about him was out there from the start.

You should have been able to tell what would happen if you tried to keep a secret from him then. You should have known the pain of letting him love you, while you were lying to him. And maybe you did, but you chose recklessness; a thing Van had always felt was similar to hope.

…

You were a slow release type of drug for Van. The high of you didn’t hit straight away. He didn’t get all of you, in his face, bold, complete, there. Instead, there were mysteries wrapped in illusion hiding behind the enigmatic you.

It took him a long time to get to you know you, to drag information out of you, to learn your favourite colours, tastes, sounds and your favourite ways to be touched. It wasn’t really purposeful on your part; you just didn’t feel the need to self-explain like he did. You weren’t really one for mindless small talk either. 

Van talked non-stop in those first few months. You could have easily written a biography of him. He could have made a few accurate statements about you. Maybe. It certainly wasn’t through his lack of trying though.

Van loved to ask you questions. He was like a human Buzzfeed quiz. Regardless, you very quickly felt attached to him. Being around him was like waking up to an unseasonably warm and calm day in the dead of winter. You knew you were in love with him.

For those first few blissful months, you kept to yourselves. Despite your very public meeting and knowing many of Van’s friends, most days were spent inside wrapped in crumpled sheets, playing Fifa, and having sex in a way that Van described as “making love.” You wanted to hate that, wanted it to make you gag or cringe, but you loved him so Goddamn much that everything he did was precious.

At least, it was up to the point when he started to ask about your family.

Van’s identity was deeply rooted in his history. He was the proud product of his parents; his conception story was told with mythical overtones. He, therefore, assumed the same was true of others. The fact that you released so little information anyway meant avoiding the topic was made a little bit easier. But only just. Not enough to placate Van’s curiosity. Not enough to ease your growing anxiety.

You had never intended on overtly lying. Anything seemed better than nothing in the heat of the moment though. After three months of dating, you went to dinner with Van and some of his friends you hadn’t met before. They asked all the usual new girlfriend question of you. Knowing how much these people meant to Van, you did your best to answer with charm. They seemed to like your sly wit and calculated sass.

Then, “So, where are ya originally from? What do your parents do?”

A heavy second got caught in the back of your throat as you tried to swallow the fear. Your voice was audible and apparently acting independently of you.

“Moved around a lot as a kid, so not really from one place. Bit of a traveller like Van, I guess,” you started. Their smiling and nodding egged you on. You could feel Van’s entire body shift to face you. You’d never talked about yourself before a few years prior. Wherever, whoever you were before then was completely uncharted territory on Van’s cognitive map of you. “My parents live overseas. Um. Australia.” You borrowed from Van’s story without meaning to. “Right in the middle, the outback or whatever. So, I can’t call them much but they’re good. They’re happy and all that.”

They were satisfied and the conversation moved on.

“I didn’t know your parents lived in Australia,” Van said as he drove to his after. He hadn’t asked if you wanted to go home or go with him. He didn’t need to.

“Mmmm,”

“I don’t know anything about them,” he continued, obviously pressing the subject.

“Like I said, I don’t talk to them much,”

“Don’t you miss them though?” Van asked, his expression a sad mix of concern and pity.

“You don’t miss your parents when you’re touring. You said so,”

“It’s different, but,”

“Maybe. Hey, can we stop for McDonald’s? I want an apple pie.”

Carefree more than suspicious, Van let the topic drop. For about two days.

…

“Wh-Where-Van? Van, where are we going? I want sushi. Soosh is that way,” you said, pointing back in the opposite direction. You looked over at him. Behind the wheel of the car, he barely even shrugged. A small smirk was forming on his lips. “I don’t like surprises,”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Don’t worry. We ain’t going for a romantic picnic or nothing like that,” he said.

“Then where are we going?”

“You love Sunday roast dinners,” Van said in a tone that did not at all tell that he hadn’t answered your question. “Therefore, love, we’re going to a Sunday roast dinner,”

“First of all, it’s Thursday. Second of all, where? Someone’s house?”

“Well, well, well, looky here. Aren’t I normally the one with all the questions? Got a taste of your own medicine, huh? Don’t like mystery so much anymore, do ya?”

Van chuckled to himself, very proud of his achievement. A lot of what Van did and said was borderline arrogant, but there was a soft humility to it all too. It kept him on the right side of the cusp and it kept you loving him.

The drive was short and when he pulled into the driveway of a beautiful house in a familiar suburb, you knew exactly what was happening. Meet the parents. There’d be no point in making a scene. Van wasn’t bringing you there to prove a point, make you uncomfortable, or as a nasty surprise. He genuinely wanted you to be part of his family. This meeting was the natural next step in the relationship. And, if you were honest, you were surprised it took three months.

Van was out of the car as soon as he put it in park and turned the lights off. As you took a self-reassuring breath in, he opened your door.

“You okay? Good?” he asked too late for you to say anything but an affirmative.

Van walked through the unlocked front door of the house without knocking. The home was warm and filled with music and the smell of roasting potato.

“Ma?!” Van yelled like a teenager would. “Dad?!”

“Kitchen!” a voice yelled back. 

Here we go. Here we fucking go.

…

As soon as you had returned home after the dinner with Bernie and Mary, Van had stripped down to underwear and a t-shirt and popped on his robe. Van had told you that he never used to like nightgowns. He said they were something for mothers and gangsters; neither of which he identified as. Catfish broke the U.S. market though, and suddenly the hotels the label was putting them up in were nice. Being billed high on festival line-ups put them in ever nicer hotels. The type with branded chocolate on the pillows, wine on arrival, and fluffy robes in the closest. That’s how Van fell in love with them. They were a symbol of success and a little bit of luxury in his otherwise humble life. You just liked how cosy he looked in them.

You changed into pyjamas too. Half your wardrobe had made its way into Van’s over the course of your dating months. It all seemed to be happening so quickly.

When you went to the bathroom to brush your teeth and pee before bed, it dawned on you that meeting the parents was a milestone. Logically, the next would be Van meeting yours. You stayed in the bathroom for a good thirty minutes. You showered despite showering before the dinner. You sat on the closed toilet with a face mask on. You looked for ingrown hairs, feeling pure satisfaction when you could pull them out slowly. You even considered organising Van’s bathroom cabinet. Anything to buy you some time before the inevitable conversation.

“Love? You alright?” Van asked through the door at the thirty-four minute mark.

Sighing, you got off the floor where you were filing your toenails and opened the door. “Yep. Sorry. Lost track of time,” you told him.

He narrowed his eyes in part confusion part suspicion, slowly nodding. He forced a smile on his face and opened his robe in invitation. You stepped closer to him and wrapped your arms around his waist and he closed the warm material around you both.

“Sure you’re alright?” he asked again.

“Mmmhmmm,”

“Yeah. 'Cause that’s a convincing sound. But, whatever, love. You don’t wanna get emotional. I ain’t gonna make you. Come on. Let’s go to bed, huh?”

Under the covers in bed, you laid on your sides looking at each other. Van was clearly very, very content. His expression was his funny little smirk. His face always wore that smile when he felt good, when he couldn’t believe his luck.

“Are you gonna sleep in that?” you asked him.

Van pulled his robe around himself defensively and nodded. “Cold one tonight,”

“You have ducted heating,”

“Savin’ the environment, aren’t I? Why you care anyway? Jealous? Want me to get you one? Matchin’ His and Hers?” Van teased.

Laughing, you wriggled closer and wrapped around him, forcing him to share his stupidly good robe.

“As much as it pains me to say - maybe. Maybe I do.”

“I’ll get you one then. I got Mum one and she loves it,”

“Just your dad to go then,”

“Yeah. He’s a bit more traditional but. Think he wouldn’t think it’s very… manly,” Van said, pausing to consider the word his father would use.

“But you don’t care about it?” you asked.

“Nah. 'Sides. Think it looks good on me,” Van laughed. “He really loved you, by the way. They both did, but Dad especially,”

“That’s good,” you replied with no real inflection.

Van’s hands ran up and down your back. It was relaxing and helping to send you to sleep, even if the conversation was going down a path you’d rather it not.

“Yeah. It is. I guess I don’t get to meet your parents for a while. Will they come back from Australia? Do they visit? We could go visit them if you wanted? Maybe when we tour there so it’s not, like, a big deal? Whaddaya reckon?”

“I’m sleepy, Van. Talk 'bout it later?”

You could have sworn he huffed to himself.

“Yeah, 'kay. Night, baby. I love you,” he said after a few moments of thought.

“Love you,” you whispered back.

Van kissed the top of your head and you squeezed him a little in return.

…

“They can’t do this, can they? Like… isn’t it illegal?”

“It’s two weeks’ notice, love,” Van replied.

God. What the fuck was happening? You were usually calm. In control. All of a sudden then, you weren’t. Your emotions were moving faster than you wanted them too. Your lying was getting hard to keep track of. Even your body was betraying you; Van seemed to know when you were hungry or sleepy or in need of touching better than you did. Out. Of. Control. But it kept getting worse.

There was an envelope taped to the door of every apartment on your floor. Like it would have made any difference, you checked the other two floors too. Everyone had been written to. The building had been sold. You’d been given two weeks to get out. The floor… the foundation of your world was being both literally and metaphorically ripped out from under you.

“No. No. They can’t. Two weeks is like… for if you quit a job. It takes way longer than two weeks to find an apartment to rent. This is… And what about everyone else in the building? There’s like… families and old people and stuff. This has to be illegal.”

Van watched you pace the length of his lounge room. You read and re-read the letter until the words started to jump from the page, fuzzy and meaningless. Deep down, you knew it wasn’t illegal. You knew there was absolutely nothing you could do for yourself or anyone else. Still, you needed to vent.

“Well… Do you still got a copy of ya lease agreement? We can read through that?” Van suggested.

You stopped walking and looked over at him. Tired and defeated, you just shrugged. Van stood up and walked to you. He took the letter and crumpled it into a ball. Mary, who was watching the drama from her spot on the couch, lifted her head at the sound. She liked to carry paper balls around the house for no apparent reason. Van threw the letter-turned-toy across the room. Mary jumped from the couch and skidded along the floorboards, catching the ball and running from the room like she had a very important mission to attend to.

“Y/N, it’s gonna be alright,” Van whispered, pulling you into him. “More than enough room here for you to have your own space. Anything that don’t fit we can put in the shed at Mum and Dad’s. 'Sides, you’re here every night anyway. Just make sense, you know what I mean?”

From the moment you had read the letter you had hoped it would all play out like that. You hoped that Van would welcome you into his home, ask you to stay. As you nodded into him, you swallowed the guilt that was bubbling away at the back of your throat like the acidic aftertaste of paracetamol or ecstasy.

…

“You’re doing it again,”

“Doing what?” Van mumbled.

Since you’d moved in a month prior, Van had developed a habit of following your path around the house. He’d sit quietly and just watch you do whatever it was you were doing. He’d watch you cook, draw, play with Mary, shower, anything that you’d let him bear witness to. Sometimes you liked it. Sometimes though, it felt like an interrogation.

“Being creepy,”

“Just tryna’ work you out,” he replied.

“Been together like, five months? Right? Haven’t you figured me out?”

“No,” he said quickly, confidently. Fair. Van narrowed his eyes and looked at you even more closely. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know you at all,”

“Then why am I here? Why let me stay? Why be with me?” you snapped suddenly. It shocked both of you.

Van was sitting at the kitchen table. He’d been resting his head on his folded arms on the tabletop. Your raised voiced had pushed him up, made him sit tall, like there had been a physical force. He looked hurt but cautious and cagey.

When he said nothing, you felt crushed by the tension and went to leave the kitchen. You walked by him, not looking down, mumbling, “Not hungry anymore.”

It was logical to assume Van wouldn’t follow you. He never had before when he pushed too hard to know more and you snapped. It may have been a logical assumption, but it was wrong nonetheless. His heavy footsteps followed you down the hallway and into the bedroom.

“What are you doing?” he asked. His voice was heavy with annoyance and judgement.

“Going to bed,”

“It’s not even eight,”

“So?”

“So, Y/N. You’re not tired. You’re just avoiding me. You just don’t wanna talk about anything. Ever.”

Under the blankets, you pulled the sheet up over your head so you didn’t have to see him. You loved Van’s softness most. But, the boy standing next to the bed didn’t look soft. He looked like bottled rage. He looked like redirected hurt. He looked like a storm.

“You know what, you make a good fucking point, Y/N,” he continued. “Why the fuck do I let you stay here when I don’t know anything about you? I don’t where you’re from. I don’t know if you’ve got brothers or sisters. I don’t know what your parents are like. I don’t know if they really even exist. Don’t know if you want kids. Don’t know if you wanna get married. Don’t know fuckin’ anything about you.”

There was a silent question mark hanging in the air. Van wanted you to confirm to him that he was right, that you lacked real identity through omission of information. He wanted you to defend yourself or finally give in, or at the very least start a proper fight. Instead, you stayed silent under the sheet, growing hot and itchy and sad.

“Really?!” You’d never heard his voice sound like that. “Nothing? Just gonna give me the silent treatment like you’re five-years-old?”

You wanted to protest that, but didn’t, thereby proving him right and making you come undone. You started to cry. Maybe it would soften him.

“Fuck you, Y/N. Seriously. Just… fuck you,” he said. He didn’t yell. He didn’t cry or scream or choose words passionately and recklessly. They came from him with the heavy weight of calculation.

The shadow Van had been casting moved away and the bedroom door closed with a careful thud.

…

The girl in the reflection didn’t seem familiar. She never really had though. Life had been hard. Early life, specifically. The rocky start had never truly solidified enough to build a proper sense of self on. Van felt like a chance at that. A point of reference to grow from. Homebase. Home. But, how could that be when you weren’t even letting him in?

With your footsteps as light as you could make them, you walked down the hallway and into the lounge in search of Van. The room was unoccupied, but there was evidence of Van. One of the throw blankets was on the couch. It, along with a couple small pillows, had obviously made Van’s bed the previous night. You knew his body couldn’t have been fully covered. He couldn’t have been fully warm, fully comfortable. It made you sad.

Van wasn’t anywhere in the house. It left only two places. His car was still in the driveway; thankfully he hadn’t left you alone. Through the laundry room, you found the back door open and the screen door unlocked. Sneaking to it, you watched Van. He was sitting on the floor of the porch, opting to not use the outdoor chairs or the old couch back there. He was sitting on the floor with his back against a wooden beam. Mary was running around the yard, fetching the ball and bringing it back to Van over and over. His throws lacked energy and attention. Mary didn’t seem to mind though. She didn’t notice his mood, his tears.

You’d never seen Van cry. According to anyone that knew him, he was incapable of the act. But, there he was, sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, tears running down his face. Every few seconds he’d sniff and try to shake out the feeling. When you opened the screen door and walked out onto the porch, Van looked up. You were grateful he didn’t try to hide the tears.

Before you could say anything, Mary came bounding up to you. She dropped the ball at your feet and took a few shuffled steps back. You threw the ball as hard as you could. It hit the back fence and then landed somewhere in the long uncut grass. Neither you or Van were particularly good at lawn maintenance.

You sat on the porch opposite Van, your back against the house.

“I-” you started.

“No,” Van interrupted. His voice was strained. Maybe his tears were quiet now, but he’d obviously been sobbing at some point earlier. “I don’t want to do this,”

“Do… what?” you asked.

Van’s hands flipped about, conveying no meaning whatsoever. “This. If we talk now it’s just gonna be the same as always. It’s gonna go around in circles. So… just… go,”

“What? Go?” It really wasn’t how you imagined the morning going. To be fair, you’d avoided imagining it, planning it all. But even if you had, it wouldn’t have been like that. “Like… go, proper? You're… breaking up with me?”

“What?” Van yelped. “No. I’m telling you to fuck off. I’m not breakin’ up with you. God, Y/N. We wouldn’t be this… this upset if we didn’t love each other. Only people that love each other fight like this-”

“That is wildly problematic. Who the fuck told you that?”

“Y/N! Jesus. You’re- This is- Just… fuck off, yeah?” Van repeated.

“Stop telling me to fuck off. Telling me to fuck off doesn’t sound like 'I love you,’ in my fucking head, Van.”

He stood and called for Mary. She returned from the long grass as he wiped his face on the sleeves of his shirt. It was the same one that he had on the day before. You hoped he hadn’t slept in his jeans at least. He’d get those deep marks in his skin, along his hips. Van bruised so easy too.

“Outta dog food. And a few other things. I’m gonna go to the shops. We’re just gonna… do our own thing for a bit. Okay?”

He started to walk back inside. You stood and watched.

“What do you mean? Until when?” you asked, filled with indignation.

Van could hear it in your voice and he turned to look at you in the doorway. “I don’t know, Y/N. Until you decide to stop fucking lying to me about everything. Until you decide what you want to do.”

You stayed on the back porch until the sound of Van’s car pulling out of the driveway echoed through the house. 

…

By the time Van returned, you had put yourself back in bed. On your laptop you watched old episodes of The Office and sulked. He didn’t come in to say hi. You listened as he worked on some songs in his studio, then relocated to the kitchen. Hours passed without either of you acknowledging the other’s existence.

Because he was Van and because food is healing, he appeared in the bedroom doorway at 7.24 pm with something in his hand. Without saying a word, he placed a bowl of homemade mac and cheese on the bedside table. He’d wrapped the fork in a napkin and put it down next to the bowl like it was a holy thing. Van looked at the food for too long. He was deciding if he could look at you. He turned away and walked out the room.

Sleep came easy and that made you guilty. But when you woke up in the middle of the night, the guilt was absolved. Temporarily. Very temporarily. While you slept, Van had closed your laptop and put it on charge, ready for your next binge. The mac and cheese bowl was gone. A glass of water had taken its place. You cried yourself back to sleep.

The next day, you were awake before Van. He looked so, so uncomfortable. His legs were twisted up, half covered by the blanket. You wondered why he hadn’t gotten any of the spare blankets out. Was he punishing himself? He was still in the same jeans and shirt. Maybe he’d shower when he woke up. Maybe he’d see the bruises on his hips and decide to look after himself better. Maybe you should have taken the couch before he could. Force him into the bed for a good night of rest.

Van’s eyes opened slowly. His nose was red. His eyes were bright blue; they were always brightest first thing in the morning. He looked up at you and his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Ah-” but you had no idea how to say… No. It wasn’t that you didn’t know how to say it. You didn’t even know what 'it’ was.

You walked awkwardly from the room, retreating into the bathroom for an excessively long bath.

The day played out much like the one that had come before it. You and Van both silent danced around each other, both stubborn, hurt, and in love. Van stayed in his studio. You walked Mary then set up camp in the lounge. When you heard the shower running at 6.13 pm, you took the opportunity to make dinner. You left a bowl of stir-fry in the kitchen for Van. He said nothing as he walked through the lounge to the kitchen, then back through a little later.

It was midnight on the dot when he came to stand at the end of the sofa. You looked up at him as he leant down and folded a piece of hair behind your ear.

“Goodnight,” he whispered. You tried to say it back, but your voice was caught in your throat. Your nose was stinging. All you could do was nod. “I love you.” And just like that, he was gone again.

…

It was morning three of the ongoing… well, ‘fight’ wasn’t the right word. Fight sounded violent and purposeful. What happened was more of a dissension. As you untwisted yourself from the couch, you listened for any indicators of if Van was home. Tip-toeing down the hall and peaking your head into the bedroom revealed that Van was home and awake. 

The movement caught Van’s eye and his head lifted to look at you. He was sitting up in bed, his journal in his lap. At least he was getting good material.

“Hi,” he said. His voice pulled you into the room. Standing at the foot of the bed, you felt like you didn’t belong. Although familiar, it was a fucking awful feeling.

“Hi,” you replied.

Van’s eyes were rimmed red and his eyelashes were a little clumped together. He’d been crying again. Knowing that was another fucking awful feeling. You could see he was a second away from looking back down at his book, from going back to being distant.

“I… I don’t know how…” you began. Van’s eyes stayed locked on you. “I don’t know where to start.”

He watched you for a second more, then closed the book and put it on the bedside table. He sighed and looked around the room, then pushed the blanket and sheet down. You immediately accepted the invitation and crawled across the bed to sit next to him. Your sides were pressed together. Van’s legs were straight out in front and yours were tight against your chest, your arms wrapped around them.

“Start with an apology, probably,” Van said, his head rolling to look at you.

“If I say sorry, will you?” you asked.

“What do I got to be sorry for? Never lied to you. Never kept things. Didn’t play with you like a fuckin’ toy,” he replied. There was maybe a little venom in his words, but they were mostly sad.

“You’re mean when you’re hurt,” you explained. “Bit of a dick, you know?”

You know what he wanted to say. His sharp intake of breath and the subsequent holding of said breath were very telling. Van was using a lot of self-control not to say the obvious that if he was mean when he was hurt, you shouldn’t have hurt him. Logical, yes. Fair, maybe not. It took him a couple of seconds to feel and think, then he started to nod slowly.

“I don’t wanna be the type of person that gets all horrible just 'cause someone else is. Not saying you was horrible, but… Yeah. I don’t want to react so badly. Don’t want to be like that to you or to… anyone. So, yeah. You’re right. I do have something to be sorry for. And I am proper sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry that I… Guess you’re right again. Sorry for being a bit of a dick. I’m really sorry for telling you to fuck off. It don’t excuse it or anything, but I only… I just… I’ve never felt this sad.”

Van looked over at you and it was Goddamn heartbreaking. It was so eloquent. He had just never felt that sad.

“I know you haven’t. You're… a really sad sad person too. It’s like watching a sad puppy… And, I don’t know, maybe you shouldn’t even be saying sorry. You didn’t do anything, really. And even when you were pissed at me you still… kept loving me…" Van stayed quiet. It was getting harder to speak. You had to proactively fight back the need to cry and the need to bury yourself in him. "I know it doesn’t change it, but I really didn’t lie on purpose at the start. I just kind of thought I could keep avoiding the subject. I’ve never got this close to anybody… especially not anybody so into… family, you know? And not everything I said was a lie.”

You untangled it all for him. You took back the parents living in the Australian outback. You took back the happy, nomadic childhood. You took back all the lies you’d constructed over the course of five months until you were left with a blank slate. A fresh canvas to start a more truthful story on.

When you were finished, Van was still staring straight ahead.

“So… why’d you lie? What’s so bad about your real family?”

Maybe he wasn’t looking at you because he was prepared for the worst. For some horrible secret to spill from you and change everything.

“Um. A lot. Well… I don’t know anymore. I haven’t had contact with them since I was pretty young…”

The canvas was painted in deep colours. As you spoke about your history, Van turned to watch you. A different you. An honest, open you.

“Why didn’t you just tell me that from the start?”

“Good fucking question. I just… I hate talking about it. Like, ten out of ten hate. So I avoided it for ages, which made it weird. Then… I don’t know… I saw how much your parents meant. I listened to you talk about your future kids and all that. I just… I didn’t fit in, not with how I was raised. Not without my own family and my own little world, you know? It’s just me and it’s always just been me and I just didn’t want to have to… say that? Maybe? I don’t know. If I really knew, I probably wouldn’t have… made everything so fucking weird,” you said. It was the best answer you could offer him.

“You say it’s 'just’ you like you’re not enough,” Van said. He moved to sit on his knees in front of you. His expression was one of deep, deep concern. When he realised you weren’t going to say anything, because all you could say was 'I don’t think I am,’ he spoke again. “I’m not… I don’t have my whole life planned out like that, Y/N. I don’t think that I need to find a girl that’s gonna love my parents and they’ll love her, and her parents will love me, and my kids will have two sets of grandparents and everything will be all fuckin’ T.V. show happy and normal. That’d be stupid to think. Settin’ myself up for… failure, you know what I mean? I’ve always thought if I could find a girl that just loves me and gets that I gotta be gone for half the fuckin’ year and still wants to love me, then that is… that’s fucking perfect. All I want is for you to love me. That’s all you have to do or be. And all I want is to love you. That’s it, Y/N. None of this other stuff has to matter, okay? You’re more than enough.”

And really it was okay, because everything you knew about Van meant you knew he was telling the truth and that his word was golden. You knew that he was good, and passionate and wild. You knew he didn’t always think things through, and he spoke in a stream of consciousness. He loved his friends, Fifa, music, and a little sneaky smoke. He loved you more than all of that combined. And of all the emotions in the world, the ones that inhabited his body most frequently were awe, gratitude, and love. Van’s love was entirely healing and entirely where you found home.


End file.
